


The Initiation

by firecat



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blindfolds, Bondage, Gaslighting, Groping, Hazing, Infiltration, M/M, Multi, Non-Consensual Groping, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Oral Sex, POV James Bond, Paddling, Season of Kink 2020, Secret Societies, Tournaments, Trope Bingo Round 15, Wrestling, likely incorrect use of British English
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:14:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25743406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firecat/pseuds/firecat
Summary: James Bond has to undergo an initiation ritual in order to infiltrate a secret society. He will need to hide just how excited he is about it.
Relationships: James Bond/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 24
Collections: Froday Flash Fiction Little & Monthly Specials 2020, Season of Kink





	The Initiation

**Author's Note:**

> Daniel Craig Bond, Judi Dench M. Takes place sometime after the events in the _Casino Royale_ movie.
> 
> Written for:  
> Season of Kink 2020 prompt: "objectification"  
> FFFC 100th Special Challenge, Table D: Fairytale/Fantasy/SciFi, prompt: (100) secret society  
> Trope Bingo 2020 prompt "power dynamics"

“So you’ll need to inveigle your way into this secret society, double-oh-seven,” M tells him.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

Bond’s expression doesn’t change. But he groans inwardly. He hates having to join secret societies, fraternities, mystical and whatnot. 

It’s the initiation rituals. 

It’s not that Bond is afraid of them. No, the problem is more on the opposite end of things. He really doesn’t want his more outré kinks to become common knowledge at MI6. Initiation rituals are literal wet dreams for people like him. 

So far he’s managed to keep this secret, as far as he knows, since his work has mostly taken him out of the country, away from other members of the spy organization. 

But this mission is to root out a mole in the organization. In-country. 

~~~

There are four initiates other than himself. Bond is relieved. Easier to disappear in a crowd. Bond has a cover identity — a banker with a cheating wife, 2.5 children, and a secret vice or three, as usual. 

They’ve already been subjected to various trials. Predicament situations. Impossible tasks. Bond has to remember not to succeed at everything they put him through. Give a good show of course, don’t be worst at anything, but don’t be best at anything either. Don’t give away the special spy training. Or the ability to memorize every last detail of the location and people. 

They’ve all failed at the impossible task, so they’ve been stripped down to their underwear and they’re being “punished.” Paddling, in other words. In the grand tradition of English public schools since the dawn of time.

One at a time. Damn.

Assuming the Position™ involves bending over to hold onto a handle on a pillar, near the floor. At least they’re being allowed to keep their pants on. 

The initiates haven’t been permitted to speak to each other or know each otner’s names, but the one Bond thinks of as Red, pale and freckled with ginger hair, goes first. 

“Count each stroke, starting at one hundred, and then back by sevens,” says the person Bond has nicknamed the Master of Ceremonies.

 _Christ on a cracker,_ thinks Bond. 

Bond guesses the MC is a higher-up in the organization. He’s wearing a robe and an eye mask, so all Bond can see of his body are his lips, and Bond can only tell he’s a white male. But this is a secret society for the cream of the British elite; Bond doesn’t have to see the MC’s pale fish lips sticking out from under the mask to know that he’s a white male.

“One hundred. Ninety-three. Eighty-six,” says Red between strokes of the paddle. The strokes are getting harder and Red grunts with discomfort. “Seventy-nine. Seventy-two.” Red hisses with pain. “Sixty...six...NO FIVE.”

“Oh dear,” says the MC. “We’ll have to start over now. Pull down his pants.”

Bond becomes worried. He is getting hard watching Red struggle to take the paddling. If he faces a similar test and they pull down his underwear, they’ll know something about him he’d really rather they not know. 

But that’s what happens at initiation rituals, more or less by design. They want to see how you behave under stress. Paradoxical sexual responses included.

After his pants are pulled down to his knees, Red is told, “Count down by sixes, starting at one hundred and fifty.”

Red passes this time. His arse is a perfect match for his nickname by the end of it. Bond is starting to worry that the dampness in his own pants will be noticeable even if they don’t pull them down and discover the cause of it.

The next initiate, nicknamed “Smiley” by Bond for his pot belly and mild, confused face, passes on his first try. Then it’s Bond’s turn to assume the position. 

“Count down from one hundred and thirty two by elevens.”

*thwack* “One hundred and thirty two.” *thwack*...

The paddling isn’t hard to bear. (The business with Le Chiffre seriously increased his pain tolerance.) Bond begins to feel confident.

...*thwack* “Ninety-nine...”

“Oh dear. We’ll have to start over now. Pull down his pants.”

 _What?! Ninety-nine is the correct answer!_ Bond feels like he’s going to explode with frustration. 

Then his interrogation training kicks in. The training that reminds him anything interrogators do might be designed to make you emotional, take away your self-control...

...but no, he isn’t in an interrogation. He is supposed to be an average, secret-society-joining bloke. How would his cover identity react? 

“Bloody hell!” he shouts, springing up before the paddle-wielder can get his hands on Bond’s pants, and shoving at him. 

The MC titters in a way that makes Bond want to smash his teeth in. “So sorry. My mistake. We’ll start again at ninety-nine.”

Bond makes it through the paddling, but the paddle-wielder, annoyed at being shoved, treats him more roughly. And _“the password, the password please”_ keeps going through his head, making it more difficult to count backward. 

The combination of pain and anger and helplessness are making his cock harder. He hopes no one notices, since he didn’t have to bare his arse. But what is there to do but look at a bloke’s cock if you’re standing around watching him getting paddled? 

The next initiate, a tall, dark-haired man Bond has nicknamed Welsh for his accent, also passes the test in one try. But he has to take 27 hits, and the paddle-wielder is still riled up.

~~~

The initiates are blindfolded and led into another room. Bond’s cock has softened now that he’s no longer seeing men getting smacked on the arse and hearing their grunts of pain. He can tell even with his blindfold on that the room is large, dark, and full of people. They’re not speaking, but they’re breathing and their clothing is rustling as they move. 

The MC prattles a lot of nonsense about loyalty and brotherhood and tradition. The initiates are made to repeat various phrases. Bond is bored and anxious about what might come next and wishes they’d get on with it. Then the MC says “Line up,” and he hears many people moving all at once. 

Uh-oh, it’s a gauntlet. An anxious thrill spreads through Bond’s body. He thinks the last time he was subjected to one was at Eton. He could trace quite a lot of his kinks to the years he spent there. Sadism, masochism, blood, beating, humiliation, exposure, anonymous sex, excessive danger... _preteen boys really are little monsters. And some of us never grow out of it,_ he muses.

“Initiates, strip.” 

A hand is placed on his shoulder after he finishes removing his clothes.

Another initiate must have been led forward into the gauntlet. He hears shuffling, muttering. Skin on skin. Chuckles. A brief cry of pain, which makes his cock twitch, fortunately just the once. 

After some amount of time, the hand on Bond’s shoulder pushes him. “Walk forward.” 

He is moving between two lines of people. He feels their breath on his bare skin. Hands touch his shoulders and arms, controlling the speed of his progress. Occasionally someone briefly gropes him — the sort of thing that always happens when people think no one can see what they’re doing. Sometimes he’s asked pointless questions. He senses he’s almost through the gauntlet when he feels hands pulling backward on his arms. He stops. 

Fingers suddenly close around one of his nipples, twisting it, exactly as hard as he likes. 

His cover identity wouldn’t like that. “Hey!” he snaps, managing just in time to object rather than groan. 

The fingers are gone but now there’s a hand sliding between his arse cheeks, squeezing. He grunts and twists. Then a hand closes around his cock. 

“Sod off!” He strikes out with the flat of his hand, not hard, hits a face, and hears an “Oof!” His arms are grabbed and held, more hands restrain his movement. He hears chuckling around him. 

“Don’t mess with this one!”

“He’s going to need taming!”

He’s pushed along the gauntlet again, but more hands grope his cock and balls, and _fuck_ does it make him hot, not knowing who will do what to him next, the anticipation of pain or pleasure or both.

“Ooh, he likes it,” a voice says as his cock is roughly handled and responds eagerly.

With every step he prays the gauntlet will end, but it’s too late to hide his arousal. He knows from experience that trying to control his erection now will only make it worse. Bigger. Harder. 

He hears another initiate moving through the gauntlet. It seems to take longer, and involve more whispering and sounds of physical extremity. When the man — Bond thinks it’s Smiley — is finished and brought to stand next to him, there’s a slight whimper in his breath. The sort of sound Bond loves, and seeks whenever he has his way with someone. Again his cock is hoping for some action. 

Bond wishes he could take off the blindfold. If he had something to look at, he wouldn’t be so focused on the that delicious sound of distress. 

~~~

Bond is led somewhere else. This room is bright, and cold enough that his nipples harden.

For a while he hears shuffling, muttered speech, and the occasional gasp or protest, quickly muffled. Metal scraping against metal. The snap of padlocks. 

“We look forward to welcoming you to our society, initiates,” says the MC. “You have just two more trials to endure.”

His blindfold is suddenly removed. 

The first thing he sees are three pillories. Two of which are occupied by other initiates — Red and Smiley.

There are also benches. Welsh’s long body is bent over one, and a short blond bloke he’s nicknamed Hamish over the other. 

People — presumably men, given the kind of society this is — wearing robes and eyemasks line the walls. Members of the society, no doubt. Bond is annoyed about the masks. He was hoping to recognize a few of the members, but it’s very difficult to do with just lips to work with. 

The MC approaches him. “You are in luck,” he says. “You have the necessary ability” — he gestures at Bond’s cock, which is still half hard — “and so you have a choice. Do you wish to give or receive?” 

Bond knows it doesn’t matter what he says. He’ll end up where they want him anyway. But his cover identity doesn’t know.

“Give or receive what?” Bond’s cover identity says. “This all looks a little more perverted than I’m used to.” 

The members of the society chuckle.

“It’s merely an extra security measure,” says the MC. “But do not alarm yourself, the video will remain in our archives unless we have reason in the future to doubt your loyalty.” 

_Yada, yada,_ thinks Bond to himself. He is getting so bored of naive, heterosexual businessman cover identities. He wonders if the video will make it back to MI6, and if so, what it will do to his reputation as a suave ladies’ man whose only “kink” is wrapped up in his license to kill. He’s come so close to quitting or being forcibly retired so many times recently, he’s not sure he cares. But he does care about fulfilling his assignments. That drive is what has kept him chained to the organization for so many years, despite the cost to his personal life. 

Meanwhile, his cover identity fumes and struggles with the new knowledge that the society will have the ability to blackmail him, and with what “choice” he should make.

“Give.” The cover identity would think being the top in a fuck or be fucked scenario would let him maintain some face.

“Very good. Lock him in the pillory,” says the MC. 

“Hey, what?” the cover identity squalls. “I said give!”

“Oh, you thought that meant you’d be giving your dick to someone? Afraid not. You’ll be giving your mouth to service the needs of your brothers-to-be,” says the MC, gesturing at the members lining the walls. Some of them have opened their robes. They’re naked underneath, of course, and they’re stroking their cocks. 

Cover identity struggles and protests as he’s pulled toward the empty stock. 

“Oh do stop it,” says MC in a bored tone. “Unless you’d rather be servicing them with your arsehole like these chaps,” he says, gesturing at the benches.

Bond gives up struggling. He is chagrined that his cover identity has to act as if preserving his arsehole from invasion is the most important thing in life. 

Bond’s hands and head are locked in the pillory. He’s standing with his legs spread wide, his upper body bent over at an uncomfortable angle. The pillory is on a table-like structure, so there’s room under it. In case someone wants to get under there and torture his cock while everything else is going on. 

With the way it’s aching now, and will no doubt continue to ache for however long he remains in the pillory watching and participating in all this sexual depravity, neglect will be torture enough. 

The men locking him in notice its state.

“Wow, most of them aren’t hard at this stage,” says one. “This bloke really likes the idea of what’s about to happen to him.” 

“You never know with these bankers,” says the other one, referring to Bond’s cover identity. “What a pretty cock he has,” he adds, slapping it.

“Let us welcome our initiates to the brotherhood,” the MC says when the final padlock is snapped into place. “Members, in order of seniority, of course.”

One by one the members of the society divest themselves of their robes and distribute themselves among the initiates. 

“Open your mouth,” says one of them to Bond. 

As his mouth is invaded, a cock is also placed in each of his hands. He squeezes and strokes them to the extent his restraints allow. 

Bond has a lot to keep track of right now. It’s a bit like skiing. Or dangling from a helicopter trying to shoot someone. 

He has to remember that his cover identity isn’t supposed to like this. He pretends reluctance, disgust, gagging, as one cock after another enters his mouth. He spits out mucus, saliva, and come. He puts on a horrified expression when one of them comes on his face. 

He has to keep track of the conversations among the men using his hands and mouth. Most of them have to do with his reactions to having his mouth fucked (“heh, he really hates being slapped with it,” “yeah, choke him on that dick”), but occasionally there’s a tidbit that might be useful. One’s a diplomat from the Russian embassy, and he’s been to a party with the one who’s a professor. The professor knows the Latvian businessman too, the one who pretends his products are flowers. This secret society is unlikely to cater to actual florists. Bond isn’t sure if the product is drugs (which MI6 doesn’t care about) or weapons (which they do).

Meanwhile, his spy brain keeps on memorizing dicks, because that’s what spy brains do when dicks are all they see. The professor’s is long and thin with a leftward curve. The florist’s is thick with a bulbous head. He’s not sure how he’s going to write up this part in his report to M, though.

Eventually he decides to stop pretending he dislikes what’s happening to him. But he still has to pretend inexperience. Every once in a while he’s given an order — “swirl your tongue around it”; “hollow your cheeks” — and he “incorporates” it into his technique. He’s really glad when one of them tells him to relax his throat. He kept forgetting not to do it.

In between having groins thrust in his face, occasionally he gets glimpses of the other initiates, the ones on the pillories also getting their mouths fucked, and the ones on the benches being taken in both holes. Bond wishes he were one of them. His prostate would really like some attention right about now. 

That’s when he feels his cock being engulfed in something warm and wet. 

Bond is surprised and momentarily chokes on the cock in his mouth, drawing a laugh from the men clustered around him. Then he groans as the mouth around his cock begins sucking him vigorously. 

Dammit, he can’t afford to come now. He suspects he knows what’s going to happen after the pillories, and being in a refractory period for that will be a disadvantage. Without thinking about what he’s doing, he jerks his hips, to pull away from the mouth.

Of course that only gets his balls slapped and his cock bitten, which ramps up his arousal even higher. 

The cock in his mouth ejaculates. Bond groans in pleasure as semen dribbles out of his mouth. The cock that was in his left hand is now rutting against his lips and slapping his cheek. The firm, moist set of lips is sliding back and forth on his shaft, a tongue working over the tip. There’s nothing he can do to get away from it. He howls and comes hard, feeling the mouth continue to suck and milk him, hands squeezing his balls. 

Applause. Another load in his mouth. Then, mercifully, he’s left alone for half a minute, shuddering in the pillory. 

Eventually all the society members have been serviced to their satisfaction, and the initiates are released from their bonds. Bond pretends feeling horrified like the rest of them. He doesn’t have to pretend the exhaustion. But he knows it’s not over yet.

“You’ve been tested on your endurance and your obedience, Initiates, because these are important qualities for our Brothers to have. Last challenge is to find out which among you is the most dominant.”

 _Ho hum, it’s the Wimbledon of fuck or be fucked wrestling,_ thinks Bond as the MC drones on, explaining the rules. 

Damn. Talk about difficult choices. Bond is pretty sure he could win, but it’s not compatible with his cover identity or staying in the middle of the pack. And he’s frustrated and fed up enough that he’s pretty close to not caring about any of that. 

Apparently Bond gave the most entertaining performance in the “obedience” trials, so he gets to skip the first round of the tournament. But that means he has to face both winners. 

Red gets paired with Welsh, and Smiley with Hamish, and the two struggles take place simultaneously.

Welsh is tall and has apparently had some training in wrestling, so he is quick to dominate the shorter Red, within a minute locking him into a knees-to-chest cradle and plunging two fingers in his arse. Welsh’s cock doesn’t get hard, but by the way Red reacts to the invasion, groaning and gasping with every twitch of those fingers, Welsh must know his way around the prostate. 

The rules state that one minute of penetration is sufficient to win, but Welsh keeps fingering Red after the minute is up, until his cock fountains. _That was thoughtful of him,_ Bond muses. Thoughtfulness for its own sake is rare among people he encounters. 

Bond is excited in several ways about the idea of being matched with Welsh. Welsh’s height will give him a wrestling advantage, but Bond guesses he himself is more skilled. And fuck, is Welsh hung, even soft. Bond wants to pin him down and then see if he can get that tool hard. If he wins, he’s the one supposed to be doing the penetrating, but he badly wants that cock rammed deep in his arse. So in a sense, it doesn’t matter if Bond wins or loses. Except Bond always wants to _win._

Smiley’s and Hamish’s match goes on for longer. Hamish, who was over a bench, has more energy for the struggle, but Smiley’s greater weight puts Hamish at a disadvantage. He can easily get Smiley onto his belly or back, but that’s not sufficient to win this tournament. Smiley is more skilled than he looks and throws Hamish off every time.

The match ends in a way Bond doesn’t expect. Hamish eventually gets his cock installed in Smiley’s mouth, but doesn’t wait the requisite minute before starting to suck Smiley off at the same time. That’s certainly not proper _dominance,_ Bond snarks to himself, and yet he approves of the “fuck this whole game, I’m getting my rocks off” attitude. Bond isn’t sure whether he’ll end up facing Hamish or not. 

The MC discusses the outcome of that match with his officials for a while, but doesn’t announce his decision. Then it’s Bond’s turn to wrestle Welsh.

He should probably throw the fight. He hopes his competitiveness won’t end up overriding both his common sense for this assignment and his desire to get fucked. It’s happened before, though.

Bond, facing off against Welsh, sizes him up. 

He looks vaguely familiar. Not MI6, but someone adjacent? Never mind that, Bond tells himself, that can be sorted out later. 

He’s hard to read, except for the determination written on his face. 

His cock’s twitching. Oh, _that_ is interesting, Bond thinks, remembering how he didn’t get hard when taking Red. So there’s a mutual attraction, is there? Bond’s also hard again — a bit surprising, given the blow job he had not so long ago. So Welsh probably knows Bond’s interested in him as well. 

They make eye contact — yes, definite mutual attraction — and then they’re circling. 

Bond knows what he’s going to do. Assuming Welsh isn’t better than he thinks he is. 

They’re grappling. Bond forces their heads together and hisses, “I want you.” He grabs Welsh’s leg, lifts and throws him, but then subtly allows him to escape. They circle again. 

Each time they’re grappling head to head, one of them can speak for a few seconds. Each time Bond comes close to pinning Welsh and then deliberately flubs.

“What?”

“Want you to fuck me.” Bond uses their proximity to lick Welsh’s cheek.

“If I pin you, I’ll fuck you deep and hard, you hot fucking perv.”

Bond topples Welsh hard in his excitement.

The next time they grapple, Bond surrenders to Welsh’s cradle move and ends up on his shoulders, arse high in the air. He waves his legs ineffectually and then sags in pretend defeat and taps out. 

Welsh flips Bond onto his stomach and straddles his thighs. He twists Bond’s arms behind him and holds them with one hand. With the other he pushes his cock between Bond’s arse cheeks.

“Afraid this is going to _hurt,_ brother-to-be,” he says loudly for the amusement of the audience, and then drives his cock in hard and deep. Bond howls at the pain and pleasure of it.

The crowd is pleased. Bond lies still, counting out the minute until Welsh can officially claim his victory, and then bucks back against him. Welsh lets go of his hands, pulls Bond’s arse into the air, and keeps pumping into him hard. His hand closes around Bond’s cock, working it roughly.

“Oww! No! Oh _fuck, yes,”_ cries Bond over and over as he takes Welsh’s powerful thrusts into him. Welsh is giving him exactly what he promised he would, and from the stream of filth coming out of his mouth, is enjoying it just as much as Bond is. _This makes the whole boring mess worth it,_ Bond thinks. 

Bond _really_ hopes Welsh doesn’t turn out to be the mole, or someone working for whatever acronymic monstrosity MI6 is up against next week. 

He has a feeling that he and Welsh have more in common than needing to join a secret society, and a mutual interest in sex twisted up with pain and humiliation. And he’s rarely wrong about such hunches. 

But even if that does turn out to be all — it’s plenty to keep them going for quite a while. 

Bond explodes over Welsh’s hand, as Walsh shouts and fills his arse with hot semen. 

He doesn’t remember anything that happened after that.

~~~

“I don’t understand, double-oh seven,” says M after she has finished perusing his report. “If they were wearing eyemasks, how can you be so sure you could recognize them again?”

Apparently Bond had used _too_ many euphemisms in his report.

“Uh…I memorized…uh…”

“Cat got your tongue, double-oh seven? You don’t usually mumble and blush like a schoolboy.”

“I memorized their…”

M taps her fingers on the desk.

“…their cocks, Ma’am.”

“You memorized their _cocks!”_ says M loudly. Bond knows her office is soundproofed but he can’t help feeling embarrassed. “Now, was it _really_ that hard to say? Is that because I have a cunt instead? Oh, you public school boys and your delicate sensibilities. But never mind that. Well _done,_ double-oh seven! I knew I’d picked the right man for the job.”

“You did, Ma’am?”

“Of course! You’re our only agent who’s so kinky for pain and humiliation, you know. None of the others comes anywhere near the extent of your depravity.”

“But...you knew?”

“Double-oh seven,” M says, giving him a Look. “You are aware that you work for an _intelligence_ agency, are you not?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Bond replies, conceding defeat. 

“Now, for the next stage of this assignment, you’ll be working with someone from another agency. _Before you object,”_ she says loudly, because Bond has opened his mouth to speak, “I know you dislike working with others. But you’ll have to make an exception in this case, and I am confident you won’t find it as onerous as you fear.” 

Is that a twinkle in her eye? Bond rubs his face. He must be seeing things. He’s still a little exhausted from the ceremony.

M hands Bond a file labeled “Craddock”.

Bond opens the file. A photo of Welsh’s face stares back at him.

“Study the file and report back to me tomorrow morning,” says M. She turns away then, as if Bond had already ceased to exist for her. But Bond catches a reflection of her face in a polished teapot.

She’s smiling.


End file.
